


Rotten

by williamastankova



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Aziraphale's Bookshop (Good Omens), Caretaking, Crowley's Flat (Good Omens), Crowley's Plants (Good Omens), Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Hugs, Hurt/Comfort, Ineffable Husbands (Good Omens), Love, M/M, Plants, Post-Canon, Softie Crowley (Good Omens), Worried Aziraphale (Good Omens)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-08-09
Updated: 2019-08-09
Packaged: 2020-08-13 08:27:37
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,466
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20171206
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/williamastankova/pseuds/williamastankova
Summary: Crowley's got to stop lying to himself, and he's trying. So, when Aziraphale starts to think he's a burden, that it's 'rotten work' to look after him... well, Crowley just can't stand for that. He knows rotten, and Aziraphale is so, so far from it that he decides he has to change his mind.(aka a hurt/comfort fic based on a post I saw somewhere, probably Tumblr, a long time ago. dialogue from a play (I think) I'm too uncultured to know. enjoy!)





	Rotten

He's vowed to start anew. Well, in some ways, at least, because he's now determined he'll tell the truth from here on out. He's even trying to eradicate the little white lies that slowly and gradually become the big lies, precisely for that reason; he's tired of keeping up with facades and tricks and whatnot.

The last lie he plans to tell is intertwined with Aziraphale, which is rather fitting. It seems that since their creation they've been so linked, so heavily involved in each other's affairs, he doesn't know where he ends and where the angel begins anymore. They really have become one soul, and so why wouldn't he lie to protect him?

The last one is also the big one. It's the one that sets them both free, mainly speaking metaphorically, because now that heaven and hell are convinced Crowley and Aziraphale have 'gone native' and can no longer be kept on a leash, they can do whatever they want. And, with this newfound liberty, Crowley decides he'd rather like to tell the truth, for once in his damned life.

That's why he says it, he thinks. Aziraphale is having an awful day, he can tell instantly, and when the angel steps foot into his flat, he can't take his eyes off of him. He tries not to look pitiful, knowing how Aziraphale hates being treated like a child, but he can't help the silence that falls over the room.

He's stood in his plant room, so at first he only hears Aziraphale enter, but then soon he catches sight of the angel. His shoulders are slumped, making his beige jacket look like it's far too big for him. It's been the right size for however many years - nearing two hundred now, isn't it? - and only now it looks like Aziraphale's frame has shrunk, in the matter of a day. This is Crowley's first clue that something isn't right.

"Angel?" He calls, marking how affectionate his tone is, though making no move to stop it being so. "You alright?"

He tries to sound nonchalant, but has no idea how successful he is in doing this. Aziraphale merely casts his eyes over to him, the normally bright, beautiful blue seeming to have turned grey and sunken into his skull. He sighs, shrugs, and offers a hardly convincing, "Yes, quite alright, thank you."

This is the largest clue Crowley receives that something is wrong, and it's also the reason why he's so quick to strut from his space in the plant room to stand before Aziraphale. The angel looks somewhat uncomfortable as Crowley inspects his face, making every effort to avoid his eye, but that's next to impossible when the demon gently tips his chin up with his index finger and looks closely at him. He fears what he finds.

"Aziraphale," he breathes his name like a prayer, something he hasn't done in so many years. "What's the matter? What happened?"

"Nothing happened," Aziraphale says dismissively, but it sounds like the truth. He moves his face away - not very forcefully, but Crowley lets him go regardless. He fumbles about for a second, looking conflicted, then shrugs off his jacket and moves away, putting it up to hang on a peg by the door. Eventually, he finishes, "Nothing at all."

"And is that the problem?"

Crowley knows that, technically, he's pressing the matter, but he believes it's something worth being pressed. He prods gently, trying to find out where it hurts the most, acting like some sort of a doctor - oh, now, he does like the sound of that. His eyes never once leave Aziraphale, who appears to notice this fact.

Aziraphale stops in his tracks, takes a moment, and then without warning he turns back around to face Crowley. He doesn't look angry as per se, but there's something new - something more determined - about his expression that wasn't there just seconds prior. Crowley decides to see this as a good thing.

"Do you ever feel... like you're excess?" Aziraphale asks him, though seeming dissatisfied with his word choice. Crowley doesn't think he's ever seen him like this, never thought he'd see him like this, and yet he's not planning on going anywhere.

"Of course," Crowley nods slowly, understanding where the angel's coming from. He's been both an angel and a demon, and yet he can't find his place in heaven nor hell. He's spent years wondering just where he was meant to be. "Are you feeling like you're excess?"

Aziraphale mimics his actions, nodding slowly. His eyes cast downwards, and Crowley has the sudden, overwhelming urge to approach the angel and envelop him in his arms. And, as his vow demands, he's not going to lie to nor hide from himself anymore, so he does it. Exactly as he wants to, exactly as he deems appropriate, he walks up to Aziraphale and wraps his arms around his shoulders, pulling him in close to his chest.

They haven't been like this, ever. Crowley's always been to afraid to initiate anything like this, to let himself long for contact like this. He's spent six thousand years wanting this, but pushing that want to the back of his mind, leaving it there to decay. He's prayed every night to a deity that disowned him that it'd just _go away_, but it's still there, and that, if not anything else, must be a sign.

Aziraphale lets him. He has to admit he's a little surprised, because his brain has told him if he ever tried anything like this, he'd feel the depressing weight of rejection, and that was something he couldn't handle - couldn't add that to his load. Now, though, when the majority of other things weighing him down have gone or at least diminished (the apocalypse, to name one), he thinks it's finally safe to try, and it seems that it is.

Admittedly, his heart does stop for just a single beat when Aziraphale's arms remain at his sides. Crowley has the creeping feeling that he's forced himself on the angel, but then these qualms are laid to rest, because Aziraphale's hands plant themselves firmly on his back, one just above the base of his spine, and his arms squeeze Crowley's sides.

It's a promise - a declaration - and one Crowley hears loud and clear. It's all of their unspoken apologies, the 'please don't leave me's that they refused to utter aloud. It's the response, the 'I'll never leave you', the 'I trust you', the beautiful, broken words they've always been too scared to speak.

That's all it is, for a time. It's them embracing in Crowley's silent flat, no words involved, no words needed. He finds it endearing, so proving: they don't need to fill the quiet, because they know what it means. It's not just an awkward void, it's giving them time to acknowledge what's happening. It speaks for itself, muttering mum sentences, and then, only when this conversation ends, does Crowley speak up.

"I'll take care of you," he tells Aziraphale, not moving away, speaking into his blond hair. His voice is something like a whisper, though he still sounds absolutely sure of himself.

"It's rotten work," comes Aziraphale's response. He sounds a little happier, though, as expected, his sadness seeps through, bleeding into his words. Crowley accepts this, and realises he'll wade in this melancholy mood with Aziraphale by his side. He'd do anything like that.

"Not to me," Crowley states, starting to pull back, catching Aziraphale's glinting eyes as he does so. "Not if it's you."

Aziraphale is silent for a moment, dipping just his toes back into the silent room, absent of any unnecessary speech. He merely looks at Crowley, dropping his arms back to his sides, and messes idly with his empty pockets, seeming to be contemplating something.

"Thank you," is all that comes out, finally. Even just these two simple words bring a smile to Crowley's face, however, and he nods. Aziraphale smiles back at him, albeit with a significantly smaller grin. Crowley still thinks he could light up a room.

"Don't mention it," he says, taking only another moment to watch the angel before he's returning to his plants, feeling giddy as he walks away.

They speak no more on the matter, but it seems there's a ring that's heard mutually by the two of them. Perhaps it's been there for all of eternity, just waiting for someone or something to move its string, but the realisation hits them now, separately and yet together, and it pulls their lips upwards into real, genuine, honest-to-God-and-Satan smiles.

_This is where we're meant to be, _they finally acknowledge the fact, and feel it soaking into their skin and the very core of their beings, feeling weightless like never before, _This is where we belong._


End file.
